Loading...It’s summer, the middle of the season, and damned hot. It’s the sort of heat you can taste and smell. Lazy, bookworm, windows thrown open to the world kind of weather.
My magazine has fallen to the floor and my body feels deliciously heavy with heat and sweat.
Slowly, gradually, it becomes heavy with the weight of you on top of me. Your knees press into the soft couch cushions, one arm sliding along the imitation velvet as you work your way up to me. Taking my arms gently in your hands, you press my hands above my head to the arm of the couch, your mouth and eyes smiling into me once again. You haven’t touched me below the waist yet, below anything really, including my clothes. Even so, my breath comes in labored, heart fluttering gasps. I feel you, lips hovering over mine, sweet breath filling my senses, our bodies almost touching. Suddenly I remember something and my almost-moans turn to whimpers, like a child in the midst of a nightmare. Your lips tease my earlobe softly just before you whisper to me.
“Shhhh. You’re still mine. It’s okay.”
Your lips touch mine softly, and I pray for more. As you take your hands off mine, words unspoken I know, no, I feel your silence with my heart, and my arms stay still with the help of your invisible restraints.
“Beginning at the beginning,” I think to myself, “she is beginning a new beginning with me.”
I take this all in, savoring it like some rare beauty, because my heart knows things my mind cannot possibly bear, and my heart knows that this will only happen once between you and I. A mended promise, a lifetime of comfort to be held forever in the memory you are going to make for me.
“My neck,” I think in a haze, “must be the beginning.”
My eyes drift closed and I anticipate gentleness, though why, I don’t know. Suddenly, and with great familiarity, your teeth, lips, and tongue latch onto my neck with a near ferocity, lips sucking, tongue flicking, hips thrusting. My breaths are not breaths anymore, but great gasps of hot air that fill the space around us. My body moves like a wave: chest, stomach, hips. My hands grip each other tightly.
You are not a time waster. You don’t have to be because you know my sounds and reactions as well as you know moonrise. The hands I love so much play a tune on my breasts, beginning and ending with pale pink translucence. My body remains pliable and needy in your hands, all the old tension gone, replaced only by a painful desire to slow things down even more. No, not because I’m frightened of how raw I become when you open me this way, but because it will end too soon. Still, I don’t speak. I am obeying silent requests that I read in your eyes. Somehow I know not to speak, not to move, not to push you away.
My belly: always a source of guilt and pain. You look up and smile that toothy grin, eyes glowing with love and deep knowledge as you place your lips gently below my belly button, just off to the right. Your time spent on my stomach is limited on purpose, I’m sure. I grin despite myself. What haven’t you forgotten? What’s more is that I desperately want to know which memories you savor about us and what sort of feeling it gives you. I still don’t utter a word, and like almost always these days, I just listen and obey and try to somehow right all my past wrongs.
The sun pours through the window like butter all over our skin and I break out into a shivery sweat as you lick softly, elegantly, sensually, sliding two hands under my ass to hold me close. It’s a strange, nice feeling, the sensation of you taking me relentlessly, drinking me into you, and with elation I realize that it’s like pricking fingers with your best buddy and pressing them together. This way you will always keep a part of me inside you. I smile comfortably at this and do something I’ve always wanted to do. Picking my left leg up off the floor and lifting my right leg off the back of the couch, I wrap them both around the back of your head.
I don’t know if you sighed into my wetness or just breathed, but it feels to me like completion. You feel like home. Lifting your head for just a moment, you gaze at me with tenderness.
“Give me your hands, baby girl.”
I stare at you drowsily and unlock my hands from around each other, reaching down to intertwine my fingers with yours. Resuming your task at hand, your thumbs stroke mine and your grip tightens in time with the movements of my body. You lap and suck at me insistently, patiently. My body will not be rushed. My orgasm refuses to be rushed. When, finally my body does give in, my cunt is overcome with a flaming heat. So many months of internal fire refusing to let go has been released.
“I love you,” you whisper to me.
When I finally awake, it’s because there are too many tears for me to cry in my sleep. There is no trace of you, no scent, no sweet breath. The windows are closed and there is snow on the ground. I’m wrapped in a blanket and my magazine is stuck between the cushions of the couch. My wrists hurt and my stomach feels like I just did a hundred crunches. The wetness between my thighs helps me remember my dream, and even though I’m only just waking up, I can’t be sure how much was real and how much really was a dream. I sit up suddenly and look around the room for you, but it’s just me. Laying back down and turning onto my side, I press my face into the sofa and let loose months of built up tears.